


Amongst Flowers and Foliage

by pocket_infinity



Category: Hollow Knight (Video Games)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff, Romantic Fluff, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, god these two are. so fucking cute, i just wanted some soft stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:29:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28157598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pocket_infinity/pseuds/pocket_infinity
Summary: Long before infections and Dreamers and Vessels, there was only a Wyrm and a Root.The Root loved her gardens; the Wyrm loved his Root.And so the two found themselves there often, thinking of naught but each other and the flowers.Or,PK and WL chill in the gardens because they’re an adorable couple and I wanted some fluff.
Relationships: The Pale King/White Lady (Hollow Knight)
Comments: 13
Kudos: 60





	Amongst Flowers and Foliage

**Author's Note:**

> fdjskhdsa i think my fluff and angst production is inversely related to the fandom at large

“...Roses?” The Pale King said tentatively, running his claws across the petals of one of the flowers.

“Tulips, dear,” the Root corrected, gently lifting the head of another as she looked at him.

“I was close,” he remarked.

“Closer than last time, at least,” she replied, releasing the flower to take his hand in her own—and entirely in her own. It was easy to forget exactly how small he was sometimes. “What about those?” She asked, other hand sweeping towards a grove of purple flowers.

He squinted at them for a moment before responding, “Larkspur?”

“It is indeed,” she said, a smile crossing her face. How gentle those smiles were, the edges of her mouth only slightly tugged upwards while her eyes relaxed, their sky-blue tint somehow only magnified by her faint glow.

“Two of thirteen,” the Pale King replied, eyes turning to meet hers. How dark they were, placed against his shell, and yet how they maintained such an aspect of softness to them whenever the two met each other’s gaze.

He sighed, then, leaning into her side and letting his eyes fall closed with a sigh. The Root could not help herself but to stare, for what a rare sight it was, the Pale Wyrm with his eyes closed. He was not so during his scarce public appearances, where he looked upon the world with an unflinching, steely gaze; he was not so during court hours, where he regarded each petition and petitioner with an ever-present judgmental stare; he was not so during meetings with his advisors discussing the growth of that little town below the Blue Lake; even during times spent with his first generation of knights (and now his second, now, too; oh how short the time of the first set had been to the two of them), he did not so much as blink. And yet here he was, black sockets covered as he rested at her side.

The Root hummed softly before plucking a tulip—a violet one, specifically—from the ground, setting it down at her knees. She followed with another and another and another until her count reached eight, after which she organized them into a circle-esque pattern, the base of all stems meeting at one point. With a single tap, new roots sprouted, entangling them with each other, and she slipped a hand under to take it from the ground. 

“Lift your head would you, dear?” She said.

“What for?” The Pale King asked, eyes fluttering open.

“A small surprise.”

“Very well,” he replied, eyes closing again as he sat up. He shuddered as the bundle of flowers slipped between the spires of his crown, settling into their place at the bottom.

“What is it?” Asked the Wyrm, his head flicking around to get a look at it.

“Still yourself, dear,” the White Lady replied, her hand unclasping from his to rub the back of his neck. “It’s just a little modification to your crown,” a giggle slipped from her chest.

“My Root, please…” he mumbled, still turning in every direction.

“It’s just a few flowers, love. They look lovely on you,” she lifted one of the blooms, staring into its core for a few moments before releasing it and pulling her wyrm into her once again.

“Do they?” He asked, pushing into her side and reaching for her opposite hand with one of his own.

“They do,” she replied, shifting to move her legs out from under her before lying back into the ever-so-slightly overgrown grass, pulling her Wyrm up to lie across her. She wrapped her arms around him, covering his hands with her own.

He sighed again, leaning back into her as the two stared up at the cavern’s roof.

Moss and foliage had long overtaken the surface, leaving it with the same green base as the rest of the gardens, but from the ceiling hung flowering vines, twisting and curling around themselves with magnificent blooms of white and blue. Some were barely a couple feet long while others stretched so far down that the Root’s outgrowth brushed by them when she walked.

The Pale King smiled, eyes falling closed once again.

“What did you think of the flowers today, my Wyrm?” The White Lady asked.

“They’re… hm,” he said. “I would say beautiful, but I reserve such a word for you and you alone, my Root,” his head tilted back as he opened his eyes, meeting her gaze as she looked down.

“Then I grant you permission to use it here, as well, with the promise that it shall not devalue the term.”

“Then they are beautiful,” the Wyrm said, turning back to the ceiling.

“I would think the same.”

A pause followed, the gentle rustle of plants blown about by cavern winds being the only sound. No words were needed for the two, at least for a brief moment.

“Sometimes I can’t believe that it’s already been three centuries,” the Pale King said.

“It has felt like no time at all,” replied the Root. “And the progress of the kingdom, too, in such a short span…”

“Mortals shall never fail to achieve once given a mind of their own,” the Pale King murmured.

“It does appear that you’ve been correct about that since the beginning.”

“I’m glad that I was,” replied he, “for accessing these gardens would be far more difficult without the stag stations they built.”

“I suppose it would be,” she hummed.

The King cuddled up closer, curling into her grasp as he let his eyes close as he exhaled deeply.

“I could fall asleep like this,” he mumbled.

“You could,” his wife replied.

“...You would have to be still to prevent me from waking again.”

“I would,” she smiled. “You’ve not slept in a while, my Wyrm; take this moment to rest.”

He shifted once again in response, curled into her robes and sleeves. The flowers interwoven with his crown remained remarkably intact as he nuzzled her, sleep tugging at his mind from the edges first.

“I love you, my Root.”

“I love you, too, my Wyrm.”

The two grew quieter as the Pale King’s breaths grew slower and steadier until he finally drifted off.


End file.
